Once
by Mairemor
Summary: Crystal chandeliers, a candlelit ballroom, jewel bedecked beauties, immortal love & lust, and The Halloween Massacre of 1876. Eric must stake his best friend and choose his destiny. Will love heal the wounds of his soul? Angst & lemons-bitter-sweet
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I wish that I'd hopped out of bed when all the ideas and emotions surrounding this story were sizzling in my brain. But the room was cold, and the house was creaking like a wooden ship from the latest East Coast snow-blast. My husband was putting out lovely, snuggly British Thermal Units, so I spooned and went back to sleep. But the idea wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is; one of my last stories for the Sookieverse.

This story takes place in 1876 after the Maenad induced massacre in St. Petersburg Russia when Eric staked the maddened vampire Gregory. Believe it or not…this is a love story that takes place during Winternights, the Norse version of Halloween and Samhain.

"_Devotchka"_ is Russian for "little girl."

Thanks Indigobuni and Tradermare for locating the quote from the SVMs so I got the canon facts straight. Also thanks to Dawn who found a great site on St. Petersburg for me.

_

* * *

_

…. _**Beneath the stains of time  
The feelings disappear  
You are someone else  
I am still right here**_

_**What have I become?  
My sweetest friend  
Everyone I know  
Goes away in the end**_

_**And you could have it all  
My empire of dirt  
I will let you down  
I will make you hurt  
If I could start again  
A million miles away  
I would keep myself  
I would find a way**_

"_**Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails**_

_

* * *

_

_**Once**_

The nights were lengthening and the undead of St Petersburg gathered for Winternights, the Christian's Hallows Eve--a time to honor the dead, when barriers between the worlds grow thin. For the aristocrats and those who knew where to look, Halloween was also a time of wild abandon along the wide boulevards and back streets of St Petersburg's Nievski Prospekt. For the Russian upper classes, it marked the end of the summer season of commerce and travel and the beginning of the winter season of balls, operas, and all of the entertainment the shadier side of St Petersburg had to offer. But upon October 31st 1876, many revelers, hallowed and unhallowed, joined the ranks of death. One vampire's pride and a collective sense of invulnerability nearly destroyed a large portion of St Petersburg's elite and not a few of the city's undead. A month before the massacre, Gregory looked down upon a being he perceived as lesser, flawed and, of course, as long as you're looking down, you can't see something that is actually above you.

My friend Gregory was proud and vain, intellectual and witty. He was an expert swordsman with a wiry athletic body, and the hooded eyes and narrow face of a French aristocrat. Voluble and irreverent, where I was watchful and "superstitious," he could fuck, win a fortune at whist, and debate the finer points of populism in an elite salon with equal enthusiasm and talent. His love of adventure and exceptional joi de vivre equaled my own.

He was a child of the Baroque Era who embraced the Age of Reason, but disdained the revolutionaries keen on murdering Tsar Alexander II. He was my opposite in many ways and yet I loved him all the more for that. While I viewed my immortality as wyrd, and accepted worlds beyond empirical evidence, Gregory examined the world and his current undead status, with keen scientific interest.

One month before All Hallows, we walked amid the statuary and topiaries of The Summer Palace before attending the opera and choosing our evening meals from the resident nobility.

"What is a monster," he asked waving his arms wildly.

He patted a cavorting satyr's bare marble buttocks. "I'm no myth, like this poor fellow."

I smiled, but my voice was grave. "Are you so sure that he is a myth? Beware Gregory. The English bard you are so fond of quoting would tell you that there is more of life than is dreamt of in your philosophy. I have seen, and experienced so much more that you will admit. The beings called gods exist."

Gregory raised his brow. "No, my friend, chance, not fate or magic, led us to our current states. I was formed upon this earth and became vampire upon this earth through a transformation no different in its way than that of an insect progressing from larva, to pupa, to adult. I am not the rending, slavering Grendel of your northern legends. I am literate--as kind as my current nature allows--kinder by far than many humans."

He paused and bowed to some young girls who blushed and giggled as their babushkaed chaperon glared and hurried them around a corner. He grinned broadly showing a bit of fang, " And I'm better looking than most human males--especially the gout and syphilis riddled noblemen those poor little birds will be forced to marry! "

He shook his head, truly perplexed. "How then, can my conformation be contrary to the order of nature?"

"You worry over these mysteries far too much, Gregory my friend…yet you only perceive what suits you. We feed upon the blood of humans and other races. We are other, not monsters perhaps, but the…process of becoming vampire separates us from others. I can never be what I once was any more than a bird can grow back into its egg. It's our spirits that expand…we can choose…like all beings…to embrace our existence…or wither…"

"Gregory eyed me with skepticism. " Your old ways comfort you, but they must also hold you back to some degree. How can you move forward and embrace the times encumbered by such suffocating beliefs?"

I gazed at him levelly as we left the gardens and made our way towards the Imperial Mikhailovsky Opera House. "And yet, here I am, when hundreds of vampires I have known have perished."

When Die Walküre ended, we set out from the theatre with our companions, a rebellious young countess and her equally wild and bored friend, a baroness. This was not the first time their aging husbands had been cuckolded--but it might well have been the last. It was easy enough to glamor the ladies away from their servants and retire to an opulent suite I kept off of the Griboedova canal. We had paused upon a quiet, tree lined lane to arouse them a bit and snack upon their blue blood, when Gregory drew back from his companion's embrace and growled. My fangs ran out. Before fear and shock cleared their fogged minds, I sent our companions scurrying back to their waiting coaches. The air cracked with magic and a pungent scent surrounded us. She was wrapped in a poorly tanned deer skin tunic clearly immune to the cold wind that lifted strands of her dark, tangled hair. Like oracle smoke, her breath formed a plume before her.

Her mad, dark eyes swept over us. "I am Phyrne, lover of Dionysus. Kneel before me and pay me tribute--for I am the essence of the great god of Wine, The Noisy One, and I will have my due. I weary of the drunken Rus. I hunger for more than humans can give me."

Her eyes slewed toward me.

"Old one, I demand an orgy with all the trimmings."

I nodded and waited to hear the extent of her demands. Then the fool spoke to the maenad as if she were a feeble human--the uncomprehending object of a superior's joke.

Gregory's face was solemn. "And so our duty, madam, is to… ermm…tighten loose women?"

Phyrne uttered a high, hysterical laugh, and then wiped a thin trickle of spittle from the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, I like you! I never knew that dead meat had a sense of humor. But, no…at least…that is only part of what I expect of you."

All the merriment drained from her face and she looked at us with steady, dangerous eyes.

"I want snow white bullocks' throats slit with sharpened blades. I want chests of gold, rubies, and diamonds. I want to smell, taste, feel and see hot, red blood steaming upon cold earth. Bring humans. Get them drunk and mate with them on the blood soaked earth. I want human and immortal scents mingled -- smoke-sour, honey-sweet. I will fill you all with the essence of the god. Gather your comrades and make it so by full moon in the taiga to the east. You who honor me will be bathed in its light."

I stood silent but alert, sensing the god that still lurked within the maenad's glittering eyes--a being that Gregory neither saw nor acknowledged.

Her luminous eyes fixed upon Gregory. "I will honor you with the first blessing. You will be the vessel. Dionysus will enter you and you will enter me."

He saw my warning glance, but he was too sure of himself. To him, this pathetic, demented creature, walked in a world where her devotions no longer mattered. I knew better.

Gregory inclined his head slightly. There was a faint glint of humor in his eyes as he replied, "I must decline the honor, 'my lady.' Although your association with such an august being is impressive, you stink of half tanned hide and animal flesh. Your 'charms,' alas, are too well sampled for my tastes."

Phryne hissed and pointed her ivy-wrapped thyrsus at Gregory and then at me.

"I will have my tribute by the next full moon."

Her sloe-dark eyes bored into Gregory. "You are young and untrained in the old ways, but you will learn to bow before me. One way or another, I _will _send the god into you and your dead heart will burn with his fire. Bow before me and perform your duties and you will receive boundless pleasure. Defy me and experience pain beyond your wildest imaginings."

A sudden wind rattled withered leaves as she whirled and vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

Gregory shook his head bemused. "And what, pray tell was _that?"_

I shook my head. "Three hundred years undead, and you still refuse to see beyond your wall of logic and reason. You admit nothing unless given evidence. Yet, there she stood and you didn't truly see her. You still inhabit the cave your hero Plato spoke of-- seeing almost nothing. _That_ thing was a maenad who danced in divine ecstasy with a god centuries before your Plato was born."

Gregory's mouth jerked at the corners, "Whatever she is or we are, this female is a rare and interesting supernatural. She certainly has some elemental power and is also, most certainly, as crazy as a loon. "

He clapped my shoulder--something no other vampire, male or female, would dare.

"Well, what's done is done and I have no intention of sliding my cock into that mad bitch. And now that you've set our noble _devotchkas free_, I suggest that we pay a visit to The Gilded Cage and feast upon French songbirds."

Nights passed and Gregory refused to change his mind.

As the Harvest moon waned and waxed toward the Hunter's moon, and my warnings and concerns were dismissed or disbelieved, I began to feel a kinship with Cassandra. No vampire reported speaking with or sighting the maenad; no vampire in the region had had direct experience of one. I was respected, but generally believed to be inclined to ancient "superstitions."

I even visited Count Ivan Rostovtsev, the titular head of the St Petersburg vampires, at his country estate. He too was inclined to wait.

"After all," he observed, "The alleged maenad has only appeared to you and Gregory. He claims that this being is quite mad--a claim that you do not dispute." He paced the room. "Her demands are very high. Perhaps she is not a maenad at all but a dark elf in disguise trying to con us out of our riches and make fools of us. Such an incident involving a dark Elf disguised as a Jinn happened not seventy years ago in Moscow. If she is indeed a maenad, she is hardly asserting her presence. You have acted honorably according to your custom. Now, that you have placed the matter in my hands, do not trouble yourself overmuch. "

I tried to point out that if she was the god-consumed maenad Phryne--she would expect one warning to be sufficient.

And so, All Hallows Night found us the masked and costumed guests of a Romanov prince whose opulent mansion overlooked broad boulevards and tranquil canals. We descended the great stair into an enchanted world of masked ladies bedecked in rubies, sapphires, great ropes of pearls and triple diamond necklaces that matched the colors of their dresses. Grand Dukes dressed as mandarins and Elf kings while court officials dressed as buccaneers and Saracens.

Every marble step was crowded as the guests descended into halls glittering with crystal and candlelight.

Cossacks of the Guard in their scarlet uniforms, and Grenadiers of the Golden Guard in their black and gold tunics stood swords in hand, in two ranks. We moved between them as the orchestra began a polonaise in the gallery overhead. Gregory eyes sparkled with glamor as he chose a lovely blond whose sapphires matched her eyes. I chose a recently widowed heiress of questionable morals and the night's revels began. We swept various partners through mazurkas and waltzes with occasional exits into curtained alcoves from which they emerged, dazed but content.

Our glamor let us dance, feed and study the inhabitants of this world of candlelight, without being seen or remembered.

Suddenly, a wave of arousal radiated from noblemen and soldiers alike as Phyrne brushed past them, her eyes fixed upon Gregory. Her thin Tyrian purple peplos barely concealed full, round breasts and the curves of her hips and thighs. I released my partner, and whispered that she should find a quite sitting room. Our fangs descended and our hands curled instinctively into claws. The girl beside Gregory crumpled to the floor in a glittering heap of satin. Like an insect's eyes, facets of her diamond tiara reflected bits of the tableaux over and over. The humans stood like captured pawns, unable to speak or move. Perhaps the terrified animal crouching within each aristocrat sensed its impending death. Gregory and I strained to move, but the maenad's magic gripped and held us in its coils.

Phyrne smirked.

"Immortal or human--your disobedience is all one to The Great God of Wine."

She moved toward us languorously, enjoying our struggle, but stopped before Gregory.

"I offered you ecstasy and the blessing of a god and you dared to defy…"

A slight noise like the hiss of an outgoing tide filled the room as Phryne gathered her magic, raised her arm, and struck Gregory across the face with her thyrsus. His eyes narrowed and he growled as thick, dark blood oozed from his mouth and stained his white cravat crimson.

She gave a little grunt of pleasure. "Now you will have no choice…"

Gregory's dark eyes widened--a mouse before a striking snake. Phyrne raised her bloody thyrsus. A livid caul of energy surrounded them as Phryne twined her arms around his neck and whispered.

"Yes…it has been centuries since you felt such fear and anger. Soon, I will unleash it and you. "

Slowly, casually, Phryne sunk her teeth into his cheek, and spat the gore at his feet. "Now you are a beast--_my_ beast."

Gregory's eyes rolled. He bellowed and flailed. Phyrne struck him again and invoked her god.

_Dionysus, Lord and Lover_

_This creature is opened to you--_

_Fill this marble tomb_

_Give flesh to your desires_!

The room filled with shrieks and groans as dowagers, maidens, sculpted Davids, and paunchy elders ripped and tore at their silks and sables and coupled mindlessly upon cold marble beneath sparkling chandeliers. Phryne loosed the pins of her peplos. It slithered to the ground as she reclined like the honored guest in the midst of the grunting, rutting blue bloods. She beckoned to Gregory. I looked into my friend's eyes and strained to bend my will upon him, to exhort him to resist. He was no longer there.

Gregory growled, tore off his clothing and sprang upon her. He spread her thighs roughly, caged her inside his arms, and thrust into her. Paralyzed by Phyrne's magic I watched with horror as my friend rose from Phyrne and became Grendel.

I strained against the magical bonds as Gregory bellowed like an enraged beast, and clawed at his own head. His face grimaced in agony, went slack, then contorted with lust and fury as he lunged and snapped a Cossack's arm like a twig, before sinking his fangs into his jugular and draining him white. Filled with Phyrne's madness, he had become a lethal projectile rending and tearing, twisting heads from bodies and hurling them against the marble columns with wanton abandon. Tendrils of Phyrne's madness bored into my mind. I roared like Loki bound to his rock, straining against my bonds. Mad with blood lust, I burned and ached, tortured by the delicious iron sharp aroma of rich aristocratic blood. I burned to fuck and consume, rend and kill.

A powerful rush of wind guttered the candles and drowned the room in darkness. Phyrne shrieked a warding spell as forty vampires stormed the room from all sides. Count Rostovtsev flew towards her and the spell that bound me shattered. I hurled myself towards the maenad ready to kill, slammed into her ward and staggered backwards. Count Ivan Rostovtsev steadied me, slapped my face hard enough to crush human bone, then gripped my arms and held my gaze.

"Come back Viking! Call upon your own gods if you must. "

Just as suddenly at it had filled me, the madness lost its grip. My head ached. I felt as raw as a scraped hide, but I was in possession of myself, unlike poor Gregory.

Phyrne smirked within the security of her ward and nodded toward the grunting, bleeding knot of vampires straining to subdue him. Her eyes glinted with delight as they locked upon the large stake the Count gripped.

"Give it to the Viking. He will stake his friend. That is his punishment. "

The Count glared at her. "Why him?"

She regarded us with wild, pitiless eyes and shrugged.

"Because his warning fell upon deaf ears. Because prophets must suffer. Because it is his destiny to bear this burden. Besides, I'll enjoy watching." She spread her arms dramatically and smiled with satisfaction as we surveyed the carnage.

"This is your fault! It could have been so easy. This is the price of your irreverence. Your immortal Tsarina will be most displeased by this…disturbance. I wonder will any of you survive her displeasure?"

The Count's lips thinned to a gash.

"That is our concern. Name your price."

Phyrne cast her eyes up thoughtfully and tapped her chin. While we waited Gregory's howls and shrieks echoed in the dark hall.

"I demand seven snow white bullocks, seven chests filled with gold and precious, gems, and seven times seven vampires to attend the god's pleasure and kneel before him as he fills me. Two nights hence appear before me at the shrine of the Old Ones on Krestovsky Island."

She smiled brightly, "Oh! After the Viking stakes his friend, I want you, Count, to hand me his shattered heart."

She waved her hand dismissively. "You may proceed immediately."

Count Rostovtsev handed me the stake. An executioner by nature and design, I had killed to survive as a warrior, a predator, and as a maker for one thousand years, but I had never killed perversely. I had never killed a friend.

Desolated, hollowed by surges of self-contempt, I ran my thumb over its sharpened tip, and gripped its smooth solid weight. Better to plunge its point into my own heart, I thought, than to stake my friend. But my will to survive was too strong, or perhaps that is just what I wished to believe and I was terrified of ending my life and discovering that Gregory was right, that there was neither reward nor punishment--only ashes and oblivion.

Except for Gregory, the hall was quite now. Gore dripped from the chandeliers. The humans Gregory had killed were scattered like garbage rooted from a kitchen midden. The survivors were glamored into silence. One vampire flaked and became ash beside the gilded cabriole leg of a smashed chair.

Gripping the stake I walked deliberately, at a human's pace, as if to my own execution.

My friend was hidden from my view by the Vampires who held him spread eagled upon the ballroom floor. He grunted and strained against his captors.

They made space and I knelt beside him. He foamed at the mouth showing fang. A rabid dog's bloodshot eyes rolled and glared at me without recognition. I raised the stake and said so that all could hear.

"Gregory…You were never the beast…I am the beast. But I will free you from this monster. Forgive me, my friend."

His back arched as I drove the stake through his heart. He sighed. His face relaxed. For an instant, before his eyes dimmed forever they held mine and my friend looked out. His lip twitched, only a shadow of his wry grin. It was over. I prayed to my gods that his afterlife woud be glorious.

No one tried to stop me when I left before the Count cut out Gregory's ruined heart. I left it to the others to clean up the butchery, glamour the humans, and set off enough dynamite to reduce the hall to rubble. The human investigators and witnesses would believe that bloodthirsty revolutionaries had perpetrated this massacre. The corpses' condition was assumed to be the result of the dynamite, ensuing fires and the crushing weight of stone and debris. It was a hard night's work for the St Petersburg vampires, but I had had the hardest task.

Gregory's, contorted face and mad burning eyes were still before me. Like straws caught in the whirlwind, we were all touched by the god's fury. Later when the massacre was discussed by those who did not love him, Gregory's loss was considered fortunate compared to what could have been. One mad vampire wrecked enough havoc to nearly expose St. Petersburg's undead. Two score of mad vampires would have laid waste to The Venice of the North.

I lifted above St Petersburg and crossed the Neva River hardly aware of the Nievski Prospekt's net of canals shimmering beneath in the moonlight, the yellow and white Peterhof with its golden fountains and the doomed Romanov's huge sapphire-blue Catherine Palace. Nievski Prospekt swarmed with Halloween revelers still unaware of the massacre and the impending chaos. I was spattered with blood and gore, but there was no time to wash--not yet. I had to get away and regain some sense of my being in the solitude of the vast silent forest; I was wounded and soul sick. It hardly mattered that I would be pardoned, that Gregory's maker would receive reparation. I had killed my friend.

Having freed Pamela, my English fledgling, years before I was alone again friendless, and half mad with grief. Unmanly, blood tears painted my face. They stained my hand as I tried to wipe them off. Nothing remained but blood; the blood of my victims, the blood, of my enemies, and the blood of my friend. Perhaps when he smiled, it had not been forgiveness that I sensed, but a sense of justice. I had become Grendel--but, unlike Gregory, I knew that Grendel always crouched within me waiting for release.

The clouds that drifted across the moon were burnished silver. A dry, light snow, the season's first, dusted my hair and lashes. As I rushed toward the fringes of the vast taiga, a cold wind carried the clean, crisp scent of pines as it murmured through the endless wood. All of my existence I had tried to remain true to the folkways of my people. I could go without feeding for many days. I would need that time to face what I had done and accept my choice. I would spend the night within the silence of the vast, dark taiga and call upon my gods.

* * *

_***points thyrsus* **_

_**Trick or treat??**_

_**Gimme' somethin' to hold onto…um…like a review…**_

_**(The second chapter will be romantic)**_

_**To be continued…**_

_**How will Eric heal and who will heal him?**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Once**

**Ch 2: The Wild Rose**

_**A/N: Happy Spring, Oestare, Easter, Passover to all! Hope that everyone gets a chance to relax and enjoy warmer, longer days…unless of course you're a vampire…hard luck for you!**_

_**The Slavs called Vikings who established kingdoms in what's now Russia, 'Rus', which may be the origin of the name 'Russia'. **__**A gythja is a priestess of the Aesir and **__**Ásynjur—the Norse gods and goddesses. The Slavs and the Vikings warred over the trading routes, but eventually the Viking and Slav cultures merged (same thing happened in Ireland…lol red haired Irishmen have Viking ancestors). Seiðr magic is Norse shamanistic magic said to have been first taught by the goddess Freya. Being of the **__**Inangard**__**, means that you're a member of a Norse society or clan. Modern heathens also use this term.**_

_**The Web of Wyrd is fate/destiny; every choice we make in the present builds upon choices we have previously made. Through the Web of Wyrd may force us into circumstances we would never have freely chosen for ourselves, we always have some choice about how we react in those situations. How we choose to react will always make a difference.**_

_** Also I'm tweeting w/ the rest of the tweeps. You can follow me at **__**twitter [dot com] /freyasmaire**__** :-D**_

_**Thanks Kathee, for your magnificent betaing skills and for your friendship. *hugs***_

* * *

_**Sometimes hidden from me  
in daily custom and in trust,  
so that I live by you unaware  
as by the beating of my heart.**_

_**Suddenly you flare in my sight,  
a wild rose blooming at the edge  
of thicket, grace and light  
where yesterday was only shade,**_

_**and once again I am blessed, choosing  
again what I chose before.**_

**_The Wild Rose_**_  
_

* * *

I fly northeast over the taiga until the last villages and dachas are miles behind. The blue-black pines and ghostly birches murmur and sing beneath a thin veil of snow-bathed moonlight. A wolf howls and others join until the woods echo with their plaintive night music. The wind song is joined by the waters of Lake Onega's lapping against the densely wooded shoreline. The snow has stopped. Pushing through the clouds, the queenly moon spreads a dancing path of sliver toward a small island lapped by Lake Onega's restless currents. A holy site still lies hidden among the trees; it is the barrow of a great warrior of the Viking Rus, my older brother Asger.

I land silently upon a thick carpet of pine needles, remove my boots and walk barefoot upon the holy ground until the dark mound of my brother's barrow rises before me. We had shaped it well to withstand the years. The corbelled stones are hidden beneath millennia of composted needles, lichens and mosses. I place my hand upon the cold boulder that blocks the entrance, feeling my way past soft mosses and scaly lichens for the weathered runes and symbols that I had carved nine centuries before. Running straight beneath my fingers is the arrow of Tiwaz, rune of honor, justice and leadership, then, the valnöt of Odin's linked triangles for battle fury and self-sacrifice, and the curved grooves of Uruz, the wild ox, for courage, strength, and tenacity. I press my head against the stone and reach out. Asger had died routing the Slavs who attacked and tried to rob us. Long ago, he was called to the heroes feast in Valhalla. He is no longer here. Have I come here in search of him, to somehow touch his vibrant spirit? He had died a hero. What words of advice or consolation could he offer from the bliss of Odin's hall? He possesses true immortality, while I am fixed to Midgard like a mussel to a rock, resilient, but not immune to the many forces that could kill me. Yet it was said that one who called upon the gods from a barrow upon Wintersnight would receive visions.

I stand in the solitude, my hand resting upon the rune stone, and summon the words I had used upon a Wintersnight long centuries before; the night I became a man. I hold up my palm and slice, flicking blood to the four directions and begin:

_I will hail Odin, All Father_

_Battle wise Lord of Asgard's hosts_

_I will praise you_

_All-knowing, Fulfiller of Wishes, _

_Whose gifts inspire his chosen_

_Hail Rune speaker, sky binder_

_Wisest of Counselors_

The hairs on my arms rise. The air crackles with energy and the sharp scents of juniper and ozone. I fall to my knees. A shimmer of power crosses my mind—male, ancient, and mildly amused.

_Why have you come, Erikr? You have not done so since you entered your mortal manhood._

_I come to seek your guidance. I am afraid of what I have become—a creature without honor--_

_You are a warrior. You know that courage is the brother of fear. Courage is knowing and acting in the face of fear—and it is the first step in living your convictions_

_Why do you seek absolution for your friend's death? You could not save him, but gave him a warrior's death and in the end, freed him._

The cold wind stills, replaced by a gentle breeze scented with sunlight and wild flowers. Shadows vanish before a blazing red-gold aura. As mesmerizing and beautiful as dancing flames; Freya; Mistress of the Slain, Lady of Abandon and Seiðr magic stands before me--the sensuous curves of her hips and full, white breasts barely concealed beneath gauze thin silk. Her warm elegant fingers stroke my face and trail down my neck and shoulders and I purr like the cats that pull her chariot. She shakes her head and playfully pinches my nipples when I try to kneel before her.

"You may stand Erikr!" I gasp and harden when she runs her index finger down my manhood. She smiles appreciatively and pats my bottom. "I rather enjoy you in this position."

Then she turns to Odin, her lovely face creased with concern.

"My lord…this is a _lonely_ man. We must do something for him immediately! He needs a companion--not just one night's pleasure. Apart from his vampire child he has been alone for centuries. Besides, he's had a really tough night..."

Her cheeks dimple as she bats her eyes at The All Father. "Can't we...put him back on the road to happiness?"

Odin speaks sternly, but his stormy gray eyes sparkle with amusement. "What mischief have you planned, my Lady?"

Freya's blue eyes widen innocently. She blushes prettily, her pink tongue darting between full lips. "Oh, nothing that the Nornir would disapprove of-- a little wish fulfillment, that's all." She squeaks with alarm as thunder rumbles overhead.

"Based upon the wyrd Erikr has woven of course...my lord."

Odin regards us both, gazes upward, and heaves a sigh.

"Very well, Freya. By coming unbidden, you have linked your wyrd to this warrior's...whether for good or ill remains to be seen. You may work your magic for his benefit and yours, and may good come of it for the Aesir and for him.

He turns the force of his regard upon me and I fall to my knees.

"Erikr, you hold your circumstance before us and say 'wyrd wove this for me.' That is true enough; the threads already woven cannot be changed, but the overall pattern is never fixed. You have asked for our aid, and we will give it. Let us see what new design you will add to the pattern tonight."

Freya's slender fingers touch my eyes. The power of her magic washes over me until my mind swirls and floats in its current like water weed. Her silken voice touches my mind.

_Your friend walks the paths of the other world. Do you truly wish to wrench his spirit into this plane so soon after its passing? What do you truly long for Erikr? _

I picture what I can not have. My rooftree, richly carved, rush lights smoking, my little son Sigurd asleep in his cradle—a shadow of copper fuzz capping his round little head, red-gold lashes brushing the soft curve of his cheek—his breath warm and sweet. The aromas of roast pig scented with cloves from beyond Byzantium, damp wool, smoke and—her. She bends over the spit. Our son stirs and cries out and she straightens and turns, her lovely face flushed. Her copper hair falls in a long, thick braid to the small of her back--my Aude.

She goes to Sigurd, bends, and rocks the cradle gently murmuring, "What now, my little man? Rest easy. Soon Faðir will be home from his journey..."

I can almost feel her warmth, her scent. I ache for her. I want Aude with me here and now.

_Call to her!_

I call to my mate with all of the force of my magic and all the longing of my soul. The air thickens and sparkles—like moonlight upon obsidian.

_Go through the portal to my __realm in Vanaheim. There the dictates of Midgard will not bind you and you may choose the pattern that is to be when you return._

I push through the portal. Clinging velvet darkness brightens to luminous mist. Pearly light bathes my skin without searing my flesh. I relax, oddly reassured in this warm, peaceful place filled with the sharp, sweet scent of rising sap, rich earth, and running water. My feet sink into a thick carpet of moss starred with snowdrops, somewhere far away from the blazing light of Midgard's sun. A swift stream tumbles in its rocky bed, bordered by ferns and willows. The mist swirls and lifts above the trees to reveal another portal shimmering into being before me.

A woman's tall, graceful silhouette pushes against the veil of magic like a baby pushing against its mother's womb. Suddenly my Aude is here—her unbound copper hair glimmers with the magic of her passage between the worlds. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, she wears a long saffron woolen tunic over a pleated linen dress. Shoes of soft red leather, befitting her rank, cover her tender feet.

Warm hazel eyes brighten with tears, she cries out with relief and stumbles toward me. I sweep her into my arms, plunge my fingers into her long, silky hair, and clasp her tightly to me. She buries her face against my chest and sobs with relief as she clings to my embrace. She smells of rosemary and lavender, of wood smoke and breast milk--of home, of family, of my own people.

Here in this place of magic, I loosen my hold and cup her lovely face. High broad cheekbones, proud straight nose, and high wide forehead speak of a feminine strength. Her heart beats wildly, fluttering like a wild bird in a cage and her fine brave spirit shines from her eyes. I slant my mouth across hers and her lips part eagerly. Our tongues dance and I ache for her touch. She tastes of rich ale and honey. I gaze into her eyes, willing her to feel and see only my need; to be blind to the fangs of my immortality. My fingers trace the curve of cheek, arm shoulder and cup the curve of her full firm breasts--at once familiar and new to me.

I whisper, "Aude, my love, it has been so long."

She brushes her hair over my cheeks and lips and I shiver with desire. Her hands fumble uncertainly over my unfamiliar garments as she undresses me.

."Erikr, I have been so afraid! You should have returned from the outlands of the Rus a month past! I begged the gythja to send me out under the seiðr spell this Wintersnight." Then she touches my rumpled waistcoat and trousers, tilts her brow and looks at me uncertainly, "Your tunic and breeches are very strange Erikr…"

She steps back, gazing fearfully at my alien beauty, shudders, and peers into my eyes with a fixed intensity. "Where has the gythja's seiðr magic sent us, husband? This is no place that I know…and your skin is so cool…so pale…"

I press her strong, slender fingers to my lips, and then gather her against me, willing her to feel breath and warmth along with bone and sinew.

" This is a magic place…Aude, don't worry about my clothes. It's me…I swear."

I smile, a bit wickedly, and cup the round curve of thigh and buttocks. "I can prove it."

I trace the leaping stags on her silver brooch. "I gave you this brooch upon our wedding day…it was my mother's…now it's yours."

She drops her shawl onto the ground as I unclasp the brooch, ease the tunic and pleated linen over her shoulders and outline her breasts with my fingers. She moans and her nipples firm instantly as my tongue explores her rosy peaks. Her face flushes and she breaths lightly between parted lips as my hands move slowly, skimming the curve of her waist and hips before setting my finger on a spot on the border of her copper curls.

"There's a small birthmark, like a waxing crescent… just here. Now, do you doubt that I'm your husband?"

Her hand sears a path down my stomach— I groan under her light, painful teasing before she cups her hand between my legs then strokes my shaft.

"I'm almost convinced. But I need more proof in such a place."

Her mouth quirks and she kneels before me. "Yes there it is. The freckle." Her tongue flicks out. Waves of need crash through me. "Right there on the left ball."

My knees tremble and my consciousness whirls and skids as her tongue and lips flick lightly over my cock before she takes me deep into her throat. She buries her face against me before pulling back breathless, flushed and triumphant.

"It seems that travel has made it a bit drier, but this is your scent, your taste. _Now_ I believe."

She raises her face to me. My mouth devours the softness of her lips and I kiss her long and deep,

I spread her shawl upon the ground and ease her down to the thick carpet of moss. My Aude's long hair fans out about her like a river of copper and gold as I cup her full white breasts, and murmur, "So lovely…so good, " and taste her taut dusky nipples, sweet and firm as ripe cherries. Warm milk spurts from them and she sighs and whimpers as I suck greedily. My hands slide down the velvet arc of her ribs and stroke her waist, the swell of her hips and her shapely thighs, exploring all her pleasure points.

Enveloped in her scent, I run my tongue over the tiny silver lines that mark her motherhood. The ghost of my human scent clings to her skin and cloak. I spread her thighs apart and lick the hidden honey-sweet places heavy with her rich taste and scent. She moans, clenches my hair, and tries to drag me upward.

"Now svass. I want you inside of me now!"

"Mmmm? Not yet min älskling."

In this place beyond our worlds and separate times, she is the center of my existence. I lock my hands about her, hold her still and nuzzle the tender, pulsing hollow where the swift current of her blood flows. I nuzzle and bite, wanting all of her –my woman for all ages, my eternal mate.

She gasps, her back arching like a bow, but I hold her fast, bending her to my will until her body quivers beneath me--flushed, slick, and fully aroused. I rear up above her caging her inside my arms. Her warm hands caress my, back, buttocks, and thighs, then curl around my cock. She wraps her legs aground my hips and pulls me into her hot, slick core.

I plunge into her again and again, delving deeper with each thrust—my hardness into her softness. Meeting and matching my thrusts, Aude lifts her hips and grinds hard against me with hot, wet abandon. I rock us together over and over as she whimpers and thrashes against me. Her nails dig into my back, an anchor in this storm we have unleashed. Sweet breath comes in little gasps now, quick and shallow. She moans as I slide my hands beneath her rump and thrust even deeper until our flesh merges, our bodies ignite, and we burn together. Her pounding heart echoes the clenching pulse between her legs urging me to join her. I arch and cry her name—convulsing against her. In the crossing and joining of our frenzied explosions, we crest together, riding wave after wave. Her beautiful body shudders as I pour myself into her and gently lower myself. We lie exhausted and content, thigh to thigh, Aude's head resting peacefully in the curve of my shoulder.

She sighs with satisfaction, "I'm so glad I have found you my love…"

She shifts. "But we cannot stay here. Will you return with me now?"

My thigh presses against her warm, wet sex, I long to return—to hold my children, to be part of our inangard. To have Aude and Sigurd, my people, my parents! Yet, in her time…I will return in five days. We will make love many times and Aude will conceive our beautiful daughter Eyvör. Eyvör, whose line leads to the great historian and bard Snorri Sturluson who will record the ways of our people and their beliefs for future generations; whose works become the basis for rebuilding the old beliefs and customs in a far off time.

She presses firmly back against me. How can she understand?

"No my love…this is a place of dreams and magic. I am still at sea…but I will return soon…rest now beloved."

I kiss the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat, feel her life blood rushing toward her living heart. Tonight I could take her old life from her, and give her a new one. I could drink her dry and fill her with my blood. I could tear Aude from home and family and betray her faith in the living husband she believes me to be. She could truly return with me, blood of my blood—flesh of my flesh. But then I would be a monster—one who wrenched her from her human life, orphaned Sigurd, and extinguished the lives of Eyvör and our last surviving son.

I cradle her against me, stroking her copper hair and listening to the peaceful rhythms of her breath and heartbeat. A blissful smile curves her lovely full lips, as beads of milk pearl on her nipples. Sigurd will need Aude soon. Her hand covers mine where her breast falls and rises warm against my hand. I shudder. In her time, she will die young, still beautiful. I will hold her to me her when she breathes her last—drenched in sweat, hemorrhaging and burning with fever. And then—cold, so cold, and regal with her plaited hair and best linens, the silver brooch pinned to her cloak, as I lay our beautiful stillborn daughter in her arms. Our acts of love will take her life. But I could give it back to her now, make her my immortal mate who shares my memories of human life and of our children.

She stirs and I curl my body around her, gathering her close. My cheek presses against the bright waves of her hair, her breast weighs firm in my hand. "Tell me about your day beloved…"

She gives a little snort, "You know the interesting part…Beside _this_… Sigurd cut a tooth today. He nearly gnawed the tail off of the fish rattle you made him, and he gave me no rest last night. You mother and I made butter and cheese in the morning, then I made the rounds of the storehouses." My capable woman smiles with satisfaction. "All of the harvest is in. The bondsmen and slaves made a good job of it. After I nursed Sigurd and had a chance to sit down, I finished a new tunic for your homecoming. You'll like it! I used madder to dye it red. "

I kiss her forehead. "It's a tunic fit for a chieftain, min svass. I'll be glad of it."

She would give it to me on the morning after my home coming, the morning after we conceive Eyvör. She'd sewn yellow braids over the seams of the garment and trimmed the sleeves with martin fur. Later, I would wear it when I laid her and our son in their barrow.

She sighs, "And I will be glad when you return and take charge of the farm again, husband. The bondmen and laborers chafe under a woman's supervision."

I caress her breast, kiss her damp neck, and choke back the jealousy that sears me like a brand; jealousy for the man I was, the man who will receive this gift. And what of me? She longs to return to her world, longs for the man I once was. If she knew what I have become, she would turn away in fear and disgust. But if I told her of her fate? If I offered her immortality, the life of mated predators--in place of her home, her family, the child we had and the children who would grow inside of her?

I would give her a changed and immortal mate in place of the husband she had bravely journeyed to find. The brief, happy years ahead were no more than a mayfly's day to me now, but for her, for my human self, they would be filled with life, light, the touching naiveté of our human youth and the beauty of our children.

Even knowing of her death…would she trade that brief time for an eternity with me—she the fiercest of mothers? Leaving Sigurd still barely toddling alone—and our daughter Eyvör and little Erikr still to come?

When she woke into her new life, would she thank me for orphaning Sigurd and extinguishing the bright sparks of our future children's lives? My dark soul whispered that she need never know of these future lives. But I knew these children of my blood and spirit. Even for an eternity with Aude at my side, I could not rip these lives from their wyrd. If I made her my child and my eternal mate, I doubted that she could ever forgive me—learn to love me again. Some part of her spirit would remain empty, bitter and unfulfilled.

Could I snuff out the lives of my precious children for the sake of my beloved wife? I knew that Aude never could. My mind's eye recalls Eyvör's golden curls, her eyes blue as sunlit summer sea, the way she'd snuggle next to me and whisper, "I love you _faðir"._ I see Sigurd too, his face sticky with stolen honey, toddling toward me with a wooden sword clutched in his grubby fist.

Could I take her from her children and her family? No. She would rise and rightfully condemn me. I knew the raw anguish, loss and despair of rising Vampire. She would not thank me for the dubious gift of immortality. She would hate me for eternity.

No. I will not be her Grendel—a slayer of women and children, a monster whose acts of love and need seemed no more than hatred. I will return Aude to her Erikr, her mortal husband and father of her children, who even now was sailing home to her.

I fear my unchanging loneliness in an ever changing world. Always an outsider –a lone wolf circling the warmth of the human encampment. Odin had said "_Courage is knowing, and acting in the face of fear—and it is the first step in living your convictions." _I conquer the fear and make my choice.

We doze in the warmth and peace of Freya's realm as our worlds and our wyrd press upon us. She turns to me in sleep and I kiss her shoulder, explore her lips with the tip of my tongue, and gently stroke the dip and swell of her waist and hip. A soft voice whispers in my mind.

_It's time Erikr. It's your wyrd to make this choice for both or you…_

I nod, kiss Aude's eyelids, and stroke her cheek, "Wake up Älskling."

Her eyes flutter open. She strokes my back and runs her thumb down the curve of my cheek. "Is it time?"

"Yes, my own. You've found out what you needed to know. I'll return to you very soon. It's time for you to go back."

I rise and help her dress, then wrap her shawl about her. It is a chilly Wintersnight in the world to which she must return. A portal shimmers before her. We embrace and she brushes her lips against mine, her mind had already turned toward our child and my homecoming.

"Soon, you will be home. Erikr…this…magic… is of the gods…it cannot be false…"

If only I could tell her how false the gods could play us.

My eyes are alive with unspoken pain and longing. For the sake of my past, for the sake of our futures, and for the sake of our souls, I let her return to the man I was and the life that was ours.

"Yes …the seiðr vision is of the Aesir and Ásynjur. We must return to Midgard to make it so."

She turns to go and my heart shatters.

I seize her hand.

"Aude!"

She turns back towards me. For an instant, wistfulness steals into her expression. I bend to her and claim her mouth, lingering, savoring, each moment in a soul-reaching message that needs no words.

Her eyes fill with tears, "This was special…for both of us. It will never be the same when we leave this place will it my husband?"

I take her face and hold it gently and glamour her. "Oh my love… when you return to your Midgard, you will not recall that you met me here, but you will recall that the goddess Freya assured you of my safe return. You must forget that you were with me."

Her coppery brows draw together. "But…"

I smile reassuringly and caress her cheek, "I will remember for both of us. Always."

Some sixth sense brings her fully awake. She hesitates, prepared to argue. My Aude is stubborn! I bend my will upon her, radiating reassurance despite the anguish that sears my heart. She smiles--shrugs.

"Of course, how foolish! I will see you again soon…" Her eyes twinkle with amusement and she pats my bottom. "Then we'll make up for lost time!' She winds her finger around the base of a few strands of long copper hair, tugs, and hands me the long red-gold strands. "But, if you alone must remember for both of us, I give you this token to help you to recall it." The portal blazed. Freya's voice was urgent.

_You've made your choice. She must return. Now!_

I let go and push her gently toward the portal. "Go now Älskling. See? Your gown is wet with milk. Sigurd needs you." Still, she hesitates, fighting the glamour because her immortal soul recognizes the truth,

" Aude. Look at me." Our eyes meet. "I _will_ return to you. I swear. And I will never forget. This I also swear upon my soul. Now go beloved, and may the blessing of the Aesir and the Ásynjur go with you."

She swallows hard, nods, tightens her shawl about her, lifts her proud head and turns from me. One step. Two. She gasps and stiffens as the portal touches her, then squares her shoulders and strides through leaving me alone in the gloaming of Vanaheim. The air shimmers, perfumed with the scents of sun-warmed grass and wildflowers. Tall, majestic, and achingly beautiful, Freya stands before me holding the spindle and distaff with which she spins the web of fate for all of us, mortal and immortal. She beams and pats my cheek like a proud mother.

"You chose wisely Erikr. You rose above the possessiveness of your nature. You acted selflessly and honored your family and your gods"

I smile ruefully and finger Aude's copper strands . " I did what I had to for Aude and the children. Regardless of my nature, I will always be Aude's husband and my children's father."

My eyes narrow. " But the gods are cruel my lady."

Her lovely eyes remain gentle. " It's our duty and our right to test you. You've proven yourself a brave and loyal friend and loving husband. We've given you a great gift Erikr--the chance to knowingly take you wyrd into your hands and choose the weave. "

She taps the glittering skeins wrapped about her distaff.

"You chose vibrant threads that will weave a marvelous pattern. Be comforted. You acted with love and gave your woman back to her people, her family, and the husband that she loves beyond this life. Your daughter will live long and be blessed with many children, among them the last great bard of your people. You son Sigurd dwells in bliss in my hall of Folkvanger. You third son has a mighty wyrd…I can say no more."

My mind whirls. A war of emotions rages within me.

"But my seed is dead…it isn't possible that I could…"

A slow, secret smile curves her lips. A portal shimmers in front of me. It is time for me to return.

"Am I not the goddess of fertility, who weaves wyrd with the Nornir? You will be rewarded. The love that you have known will be reborn in splendor to break and then renew your mighty heart."

* * *

_***sniffs* *smiles* **_

_**Was it good for you min **__**älskling?**_

_**Thanks for reading. Please review. It's a great motivator for a mom of 9 to write.**_


End file.
